


An image refracted

by Maewn



Series: Where Angels Fear to Tread (Demons Will Gladly Waltz) [2]
Category: The Conjuring (Movies), The Nun (2018)
Genre: Corpse Desecration, Gen, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, desecration of a church, lots of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 17:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16044965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maewn/pseuds/Maewn
Summary: The year is 1968, and in a tiny village somewhere in Europe, a woman meets a rather beautiful nun.





	An image refracted

There is a nun sitting on the bench outside the fountain, and Mira squints.

She’s old, and her eyesight is going, but she’s relatively sure that she’s just seen _claws_ where the nun’s hands should be.

The nun rises from her seat, and kneels beside the fountain, her head bowed.

Mira shakes her head. She didn’t get enough sleep, that’s all. It’s her own fault for staying up late to finish her novels. She bustles about the kitchen, fixing breakfast and returns to the window after.

The sister is still there, head bowed in prayer.

Perhaps the sister would appreciate a nice cuppa, Mira thinks. She knows she would after saying prayers after kneeling on the hard stone.

She totters out to the fountain ten minutes later with a thermos of piping hot jasmine tea.

“Good morning, sister,” Mira says. “Would you like some tea? It is rather cold out this morning.”

The sister raises her head, turning her head slightly. Mira can see pale lips, and delicate eyelashes, and gentle features.

The sister really is quite beautiful. Though to an old woman, Mira supposes, all young people look beautiful.

“Thank you, Madam,” the sister says, smiling warmly. Her eyes are a startling green with hints of yellow. “You are too kind.”

“Nonsense,” Mira says, giving her the thermos and settling on the bench with a sigh.

“Mmm, Jasmine,” the sister says, delighted. “I feel warmer already.”

“Are you from the convent up the road?” Mira asks.

The sister laughs politely, “Yes, madam, I am new to the convent, so I would not be surprised if you had not seen me before.”

“I am Mira,” Mira introduces herself, “I run the local tea shop. We don’t see too many of the sisters down here.”

“I prefer to pray in nature,” the sister says. “For we were made in the great green wilderness, and should we not worship in the same? Oh, do forgive my manners, I am Sister Irene.”

“Irene,” Mira says, “It is a lovely name.”

“Thank you, Ms. Mira,” Irene says, smiling as she sips the tea.

They sat in comfortable silence at least until Mira’s old bones began to ache.

“Ah, I fear I must be going, sister,” Mira says, standing up slowly. “The cold makes my joints ache.”

Irene stands, “I will at least help you to your cottage, Ms. Mira. You have given me good company and it is nice to speak to someone outside the convent for a change.”

“You’re very kind,” Mira says, taking Irene’s offered arm. “If you are down here again, please stop by for tea.”

“Of course,” Irene says, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Mira almost stumbles on her front steps, distracted by a snake that slithers past.

“Careful,” Irene says, catching her with apparent ease. “We wouldn’t want you to slip and break something.”

“Yes, that would be bad,” Mira agrees, watching the snake vanish into a bush.

“Do you like snakes?” Irene asks.

“They’re fine as long as they don’t bite me,” Mira says opening her door. “Here we are. Thank you for escorting me, sister.”

“It was my pleasure,” Irene says, smiling beatifically. “And before I forget, here is your thermos back.”

“Thank you,” Mira says, accepting it.

* * *

 

Mira meets Irene once a month from then on, drinking tea by the fountain on warm sunny days and inside the tea shop on colder, overcast days.

Irene is a quiet nun and a kind and gentle woman. She rescues many a garden snake from the bricklayer’s shovel.

Such a beautiful woman, Mira thinks. Certainly, one of the nicest nuns she’s ever met.

* * *

 

The bells are not ringing. The air is still, silent, and utterly eerie.

Mira walks slowly up the path to the church. The bishop has never cared if she walks in late, and he’s bound to ramble on for at least another half hour before getting to his point.

It is rather odd that the bells are silent. Mira passes the convent which has closed its gates again; they are a cloistered order and hold their own services on Sunday.

Sister Irene had said last week that the order was planning a trip to the nearby cathedral and Mira wonders if they will stay away long. It is nice to hear the nuns singing in the morning as they tended the sprawling gardens they keep.

The stairs are dark, stained by the weather, and Mira struggles to keep her balance on them. They aren’t usually so slippery.

She frowns; she’ll have to have a word with the bishop, someone might trip and fall.

Mira eases the front door open and walks quietly to the great doors that lead into the cathedral.

They open silently, swinging open on oiled hinges.

Into a scene from nightmares.

Every inch of the white marble ceiling is stained crimson. It streaks the floors, the pews, even the cross is coated with gore.

And on the cross, the body of the bishop hangs, arms askew, entrails dangling, twisting in some unseen wind. The stained-glass windows of the saints are shattered where the heads would be and the heads of—Mira retches.

The heads of the choir ladies are placed in the saints’ stead.

The pews are filled with bodies, and all of them are missing their heads. No, Mira realizes, swallowing back bile. Their heads are resting in their laps.

**All of them.**

Mira thanks God that there were no children in the village.

“Do you not like it?” a voice says sweetly. “It is rather beautiful, is it not?”

Mira reels back from the horror to find kind, gentle Sister Irene standing there, robed in white. Her hands are inky black claws, and she smiles ever so happily.

 _“Finit hic Deus,”_ Sister Irene says, and reaches out to her. “God is not here.”

And Mira’s heart thuds to a stop and she collapses, a puppet without strings.

 **“Such a pity,”** Valak says softly, watching the corpse with bright, luminous eyes. **“I wanted to have more fun.”**


End file.
